


Air Without Breath

by StarkRogers



Series: Collared Good Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hand Jobs, M/M, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 09:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: A companion piece toWait Your Turn, a collared!Aziraphale story. Both prompts are from the Tadfield Advertiser meme.Crowley loves being used by Aziraphale while wearing a thick, stiff collar.





	Air Without Breath

The collar digs into the skin of his neck and Crowley whines, dropping to his knees so hard he knows it’ll hurt later but right now he doesn’t care (and later, he’ll relish the reminders). Aziraphale slides his fingers farther under the thick leather, and Crowley’s mouth falls open as it becomes harder to breathe. 

“_Yes_,” he rasps, closing his eyes, blood pounding in his ears. 

“Hush,” Aziraphale orders with a slight tug, and Crowley’s next breath catches in his throat as he opens his yellow eyes, gazing up at Aziraphale with adoration, his mouth open, wishing for air that doesn’t come. Instead, Aziraphale slips his length between Crowley’s lips, and Crowley sobs with overwhelming SOMETHING. The edges of his vision turn red, then fade to nothing as Aziraphale uses him agonizingly slowly, doesn’t give him a moment to recover.

Crowley _worships_ as everything turns to thick, warm darkness around him, every sensation reducing down to the feel of Aziraphale in his throat, the thick leather digging into his skin, Aziraphale’s fingers flexing against the back of his neck as the thrust of his hips grows more demanding. He barely even registers Aziraphale coming down this throat; he swallows instinctively, and the next moment cold air fills him, the edges of his vision sparkling. 

“Breathe,” Aziraphale commands softly, working the flesh of Crowley’s neck gently under the collar, easing the ache Crowley hadn’t even felt setting in. Crowley’s eyes are wet, and Aziraphale kisses them, follows the tears down Crowley’s cheeks as his brain slowly comes back online. 

Aziraphale is pushing him down onto something soft and he lets himself go; comforters and pillows envelop him as his skin prickles back to life. With a soft cry he feels Aziraphale’s hand on him, stroking him so gently it hurts, and for a moment he tries to get away. Aziraphale’s smooth voice filters through, calming him, soothing him. Pleasure fills in the spaces vacated by the breathless fog, so Crowley has no chance to think clearly for even a moment. The pleasure of oblivion melts into the pleasure of stimulation until he’s panting, grasping at the duvet, lost in this new sensation. Is it minutes? Years? He can’t tell, but finally he’s coming so hard he forgets to breathe again.

The rest of Crowley’s senses all finally come back one by one. He’s curled up in Aziraphale’s arms, the blankets pulled over them cozily. The collar is still pressing against the side of his neck, but he’s comfortable enough that he doesn’t mind. Just as sleep is beginning to drag him under he feels Aziraphale’s fingers loosening the buckle. Crowley whines softly and tries to pull away, but Aziraphale is quietly firm.

“You’ll cut off your brain circulation if you sleep with it, dear,” Aziraphale says softly. The collar comes loose, and Crowley feels it slide out from beneath his neck, feels the mattress sink as Aziraphale leans over, hears the sound of the buckle clinking as it’s set down on the bedside table. “There. Now get some sleep, darling.” Aziraphale lays back down, pulling Crowley back into his warm arms.


End file.
